Blood Relations
by Betty3
Summary: This is a one parter, mainly all about Tristan, his life from the way i would imagine it.


**Blood Relations**

By: Betty

A BMW Z-4 can be seen turning up a cobblestone driveway to park before a stone mansion. A lone figure exits the car, hands the keys to the caretaker before him and watches as the car is driven away. He is microscopic in comparison to the house that lies behind him; in away it is ironic, for a man such as he is supposed to be larger than life. The figure turns to the front door and proceeds to make his way up the stairs. As he enters the front hall of the house he turns to the message machine and presses play. A shrill mechanical voice rains through the house announcing the existence of a new message.

"You have one new message, message one; Tristan darling, this is your mother calling. Your father and I are having a wonderful time in France, and as such we have decided to extend our trip for another two weeks. We're terribly sorry we won't be there for your birthday. Your father has wired money to your account, however, for the occasion. Have fun, and try not to disgrace the family name. If you would li..."

Before the message could finish the young man slams his fist on the machine, efficiently deleting the message. The man stands, posture sagged as if he was holding the weight of the world on his shoulders; his breathing is heavy, aggravated and vengeful. Everything about his appearance screams contempt, and anger. Upon a closer glance though, one can see a single tear slipping down his cheek to hit the marble floor. The young man turns towards the staircase and began his ascent to his room.

The walls are pristine, untouched. The halls are perfectly decorated and a defining silence fills the house. This place was like a museum, and to Tristan it was. This wasn't home: it was where he slept, ate, and did his homework, not home. Home was a place where you felt safe, protected, he felt anything but safe in this place.

Suddenly a child's voice cuts through the silence like a knife. At the end of the corridor, a soft glow emanates from a room, the same room from which that angelic voice echoed moments ago. Will approaches with quiet steps: as he rounds the corner, he sees a small girl sitting on the floor playing with a doll. He approaches the young girl only to scoop her up in his arms and twirl her around.

"Tris!"

The little girl's screech causes the young man to laugh. This is what he lived for, his little sister, his saving grace.

"What Melusine? What did I do now?"

"You're tickling me, Tris!"

"Oh I'm tickling you? Are you sure? 'Cuz I'm pretty sure that this was tickling...not this?"

The two continued in similar vein for some time. The room was filled with laughter and joyful screams and, for a short time, so was the house. This was the extent of happiness found in the lives of the Dugrey children; this was the life that only wandering eyes would see. This was their story from the eyes and ears of the walls - of the hired help.

Three floors bellow the laughter sits a woman peeling apples. She is slightly hunched on a stool and her foot, is extended forwards, grazing the foot of the counter. Wisps of black hair fall into her eyes, hiding her rosy cheeks and emerald eyes. As she peels the apples, her soft voice can be heard throughout the kitchen as she sings a soft tune in French. A smile plays at her lips as she remembers the joyous memories that were once those of Tristan.

The doors creak and the elderly woman looks up. She smiles as she sees a young boy skipping across the red-tiled floor. He approaches the women whose age seems to have turned back ten years. The young boy looks up at a younger version of the woman displaying a full smile, dimples and all. His hair is bleach blond, and the blue of his eyes lightens as he begins to ramble on about his first day of school.

"Isabelle, Isa, guess what?"

The woman's face breaks into a smile as she leans down to continue in the animated discussion with the young boy.

"What is it, Tris? Did you have a good day at school? How was it? Did you make any new friends?"

The two continue to chat until the swinging of the kitchen doors catches the young boy's attention.

"Mummy!"

The young boy turns to the woman who has just entered the kitchen. She is dressed in a black business suit. Her hair is pulled up into an elegant French twist exposing the string of pearls that adorn her neck. Everything about this women screams sophistication, class, anything but "mother". In this moment, the boy runs to hug his mother only to be pushed away and ignored.

"You there, with the apples."

"Her name is Isabelle, mummy."

The woman glares at the young boy who is pushed against the counter in a state of fear. He begins to shake under the gaze of his mother and soon her voice breaks through with a clear and condescending tone.

"I know her name perfectly well, Tristan. And how many times have I told you not to talk back?"

The woman turns back to Isabelle and questions her.

"Isabelle? Isabelle? Are you listening to me?"

Mrs. Dugrey voice begins to fade and is replaced by that of a man's. Beginning to notice the change the woman is broken from her memories as a man stands before her. He is dressed in a black tuxedo, complete with a white towel that sits upon his left arm. His hair is greying and thin, but his eyes in contrast are bright and blue. He looks at his wife; a grimace of concern adorns his face until a plate of sliced apples catches his eyes. Master Tristan as his parents preferred it, or Tris's, favourite snack. From a young age Tristan had always disliked the wax taste of the apple skins. Ever since his wife had come to work in the Dugrey's kitchen she had always made it her personal mission to have a plate ready for Tristan when he arrived home.

The man turns to his wife wiping the falling tears from her cheeks. She looks up at him with glassy eyes only to cry again. Through her tears she manages to explain her saddened state.

"That day, it was the day he stopped calling her "mummy", not that that women deserved the title, but God. The look on his face that afternoon, it killed me. It killed him, this family has killed him. I can't even recognise him anymore, there's no hope left in his eyes, no joy, no love, he's just void. I can't stand it, how could those monsters do that to him, how could they abandon him, birthday after birthday, Christmas after Christmas. He has no family, Jean, he has no one."

Isabelle breaks into tears once more, rage fuelling the salty liquid that falls from her eyes rather than sadness. Jean bends to his wife, understanding her grief and anger for he feels the same. He also knows, however, that in times like this his wife, as sad as it may seem, needs to be alone.

Lifting the plate of apples, Jean turns to his wife.

"Isa, I'm going to take these to Willy. I will return shortly."

With one final glance Jean exits the kitchen leaving his wife to collect herself, as he knew she would. Jean himself could not understand the Dugreys, nor their outlook on children. In all truth, Melusine had been an accident, so much so that it had been Isabelle who had named her. A month after Melusine's birth, both he and his wife had given up waiting on the Dugreys. When Tristan had inquired about his younger sister's name, Isabelle had turned to him telling him both the name and the context. Tristan was actually delighted with the name after hearing of its origins. He found it quite amusing that his little sister was named after a witch, a good witch, but a witch nonetheless. As he had said to Isabelle, witches were ugly, and Melusine was anything but.

As Jean rounded the final corner to Melusine's bedroom, he thought of Tristan. Melusine might have been a mistake, but in a sense it was her saving grace. She was ignored, so much so that she had been able to live a happy life thus far. Tristan, however, was the eldest and the heir to the Dugrey fortune. As such, he had been groomed from a young age to be a socialite, a requirement of which was to lose one's very soul in Jean's opinion. With these thoughts, the man's mood was seriously dampened. He began to realise the hopelessness of Tristan's situation, and in truth, it frightened him. Isabelle was right: he had no one, no family, nothing.

Alas, as Jean peered in the bedroom of the resident angel his breath caught. There on the rocking chair in the corner sat Tistan and Melusine. The two were fast asleep, Tristan's arm around Melusine, the other hanging over the armrest with a book in hand. Melusine had her head tucked under her brother's chin, her small fingers delicately grasping her big brother's shirt.

Jean set the plate down on the table next to the chair. As he reached to retrieve the book from Tristan's grasp, the title caught his eye: _Les côntes de Melusine_.

Although there was no one to hear him, not even his wife, John whispered to himself.

"He has a family Isa, one that is stronger than the ties of blood."


End file.
